By Kimathi wa Mutegi
I grew up on a farm. A ranch, really, set on a not-so-gentle incline that started from the murram road near the coffee factory and plummeted all the way down to the river.
My old man inherited the particular parcel from his old man, whose
estate measured an incredible 50 acres, before he split it equally among his 10
sons.
You’ve very likely done the simple math already and are probably
thinking; “Five acres… a ranch, really? Nah!”
First, I’ll tell you this. If you think a whole five acres are too tiny
to call a ranch, then, my friend, you haven’t thought about it in hectares.
I’ll then update your vocabulary, Mt Kenya style, since it’s obvious
‘farm’ to your ilk means the sort of extensive wilderness of maize found in
Kitale, or the rambling savannas of wheat in Narok.
Those, mi amigo, are not farms. They are countries. That’s what
they are where I grew up.
But it wasn’t always like this. When my ancestors discovered the lands
on the mountainside, there was more than enough slope to go around. Then the volcanic
soil turned out to be incredibly good for growing food.
Incidentally, happy tummies happen to encourage the hopelessly addictive
phenomenon called reproduction. Yep, full stomachs and sagging granaries tend
to enable females to stay fertile longer while the blokes find the time and
energy to play their part –critical elements in the business of making new
humans.
There was excellent logic to it too. The more copies of themselves a
couple made, the more the hands available to clear more land and grow even more
food… and so the cycle went…
The process should have stopped or slowed down at some point, but I
guess my folks weren’t bothered to think as far ahead as to the fact that these
resources aren’t infinite. So, it was Ctrl+C then Ctrl+V over and over.
Meanwhile, the mountain was haemorrhaging slope –fast.
At some point, these my folks of yore looked at the dwindling
mountainside and it became apparent that some adjustment was needed. So, they
made them. Adjusted certain definitions to keep them up to date with the
evolving situation.
That is how the definition of ‘farm’ on the slopes has gotten to be, how
to put it, rather specific. Technically, whatever, if anything at all, is left
over after you have planted your house can pass for a farm.
This can get as precise as a patch the size of a pool table behind the
kitchen on which a dozen stems of vegetables, diverse in their type and health,
compete for existence. It could be ringed by a mesh wire to keep away stray
feet –human and not.
But a farm can also be a whole five acres, a sprawling ranch on which a
couple such as my Pa and Ma could grow crops, raise some livestock and a bunch
of kids while at it.
And so, you may know my parents enjoyed raising things on their ranch
farm and those things (of the non-human type) enjoyed being raised on their
farm too. You’d probably expect that some of this enthusiasm would naturally
rub off on the eldest son. Well, you would be terribly disappointed, just like
my folks were.
Yep, I grew up on a farm, but did not end up a farmer. Why? Well, ask me
that if we meet again. Perhaps I’ll tell you why. Perhaps I won’t. Who knows?
